The Professor In Sunlight, Writing His Book About Ferns
by Teobi
Summary: Tiny drabble-style fic to mark one year since Russell Johnson passed away. The title is pretty much the summary of the story and it is mildly Pinger, so skip it if you don't ship it! RIP Professor


**Short drabble-type fic to mark the first anniversary of the day we lost the Professor. **

**RIP Russell Johnson, November 10, 1924 – January 16, 2014. One year gone already!**

**All characters belong to Sherwood Schwartz. **

oOoOo

_Set in the early days, not long after they were shipwrecked._

She approaches him in the grove, a small patch of grass dappled by sunlight close to the lagoon. A quiet place where the only sound is the tinkling of the waterfall and the musical twitter of birds. A sun trap, but with plenty of shade. He comes here sometimes to work on his notes.

"Hello, Professor," she ventures, tentatively. She knows he never minds being interrupted, but still she doesn't like to push it in case he's in the middle of something important. She couldn't bear to make him lose his train of thought.

He looks up from the fallen log on which he sits. Not for the first time she's struck by how handsome he is, and again she wonders what made him choose science as a career._ He has the looks of a matinee idol,_ she thinks, fondly. _I certainly wouldn't say no if he were cast as my leading man._

He stops writing and rests his hands in a relaxed fashion on top of his open notebook. "Hello, Ginger," he says, amiably. "What brings you to my secret hideout this time?"

She blushes to think he's keeping tabs on the number of times she finds an excuse to visit him. "I just wanted to tell you that lunch will be ready soon," she says, flashing him a warm and genuine smile.

He returns her smile, his eyes twinkling. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she responds, then fidgets for a moment like a schoolgirl.

He stares up at her for a couple of silent, thoughtful moments, then gestures towards a nearby boulder.

"Sit down," he instructs.

"Oh, I really shouldn't," she protests. "I told Mary Ann I'd be right back..." she waves her hand in a vague gesture towards the huts.

"Nothing that can't wait," he responds, still smiling. "Please, Ginger. Sit."

Ginger gathers the skirts of her gown and perches carefully, like a bird, on the rock.

He begins to make casual conversation. "Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get this finished," he says, leafing through his notebook. The pages flutter over and over, pages covered with reams of handwriting, scrawled comments and scratchy, rough diagrams. "And even if I do get it finished, will I ever live to see it published?"

Ginger tilts her head as he regards the fruits of his labor, feeling a wave of sympathy wash over her like summer rain. "'Fun with Ferns'?" she ventures, although she knows full well that it is.

"Indeed," he replies, his smile widening.

Ginger looks over to the edge of the grove, where a thick and bushy clump of ferns is growing. "I never thought anyone would be able to write a whole book about_ those_," she says, pointing at the lush but rather nondescript foliage.

He picks up his notebook with one hand and shakes it vigorously at her to emphasize all the points he's about to make. His voice begins to rise and fall as he gets into his stride, a classroom lecturer in full flow. "Ginger, do you know just how many different classifications of ferns there are? Why, there are over _twelve thousand species_ of spore bearing vascular plants, and that's only the beginning!"

Ginger laughs suddenly, her fears dissolving like sugar in warm water. "Only you could get so excited about ferns," she tells him, knowing he won't be offended.

"Ferns are singularly beautiful," he agrees. "They've been around for hundreds of millions of years, hardly changing in all that time. And do you know why that is?"

Ginger watches the light in his eyes grow brighter as his enthusiasm peaks. "Why that is?" she asks, teasing him, gently.

He allows her teasing comment to sail right over his head. "Because they don't need to. They've adapted perfectly to their respective environments. They don't trouble us, and we don't trouble them. They are completely self-sufficient, and this helps them to survive against all odds. Ginger- ferns go back to prehistoric times. Don't you know how _old_ that is? _Hundreds of millions of years_!"

She suppresses the urge to laugh at the boyish excitement playing across his handsome face. Filtered rays of sunlight play over his matinee idol features and illuminate natural highlights in his chestnut brown hair. The collar of his pale blue shirt is open, inviting her to look at the hidden contours of his collarbones. She composes herself, keeps her expression neutral; she resists the temptation to stare, even though it's not easy.

"Forgive me for saying this, Professor," she smiles, "but most people might say that ferns are... well, _boring._"

He sits up straight, as though affronted, but his amused expression says otherwise. "They might," he says. "But they'd be wrong."

She waits expectantly for him to add more to his impassioned lecture on plant life, but he doesn't. He merely sits on his fallen log, watching her the same way as she watches him. His face registers mild interest, she imagines that his scientific curiosity is piqued. His blue eyes regard her carefully, but give nothing away.

"Is that it?" she asks, enjoying the silent rapport they appear to be sharing.

He nods assertively. "Class is over, Miss Ginger. For now, that is."

Ginger gathers herself together and rises smoothly from the boulder. "In that case, Professor Hinkley," she announces, "I shall get back to the huts and finish helping Mary Ann with lunch."

He watches her for a few more moments, tapping the hard cover of his book with the end of his pencil. Then, as she turns to leave the grove, he shakes his head with a chuckle and returns to his notes to begin sketching a new illustration. His pencil scurries over the page, swishing and scratching, and the emerging image becomes a fern, tall and beautiful, with gently swaying fronds that look remarkably like a woman's curves.

Ginger glances back one last time. He looks quite at home, doodling away in his book, the nape of his neck exposed and bathed in sunlight. Her lips tingle as she suddenly thinks of kissing him, just there- just where a little nub of bone appears above the collar of his shirt. Her feelings take her by surprise, but not completely; she is not one to easily fall in love. But out here in the middle of nowhere, on this godforsaken desert island with seemingly no hope of rescue, this handsome, intellectual loner has already stolen her cynical, Hollywood bruised heart.

She takes a mental snapshot of him perched on his log in the middle of this modest little grove, scribbling away at a pile of notes that may never see the light of day. She frames it in her mind and titles it: 'The Professor In Sunlight, Writing His Book About Ferns'. Nothing that will ever top the New York Times Bestseller list, or earn him a fortune, or even put his name on the lips of the In Crowd, but something he's doing because he wants to. Because he's in love with ferns, and he wants everyone else to love them too.

And just like a fern, he's a perfect specimen- adapting to his new environment before her very eyes. Troubling no one, and being troubled by no one. Completely self sufficient, and very far from boring.

End


End file.
